


Cirque du Miroh

by chocolatechimkookie



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Circus, Bang Chan | Wheel of Death, Circus Owner!JYP, Circus Performers!Stray Kids, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Han Jisung | Knife Thrower, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Hwang Hyunjin | Fire Dancer, I Tried, I fixed that, Injury Recovery, Kim Seungmin | Illutionist, Lee Felix | Contortionist, Lee Felix | Trapeze, Lee Minho | Aerial Silks, M/M, Mentioned Bangtan Boys | BTS Ensemble, Minho!centric, Minor Bang Chan/Kim Seungmin, Minor Hwang Hyunjin/Yang Jeongin | I.N, Minor Lee Felix/Seo Changbin, One-Sided Attraction, Seo Changbin | Trapeze, Slow Burn, Trauma, all rounder jisung, bang chan best leader, no beta we die like men, soft buddies skz, soft minho, there were no circus aus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24752110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatechimkookie/pseuds/chocolatechimkookie
Summary: We only have a few rules here at Cirque du Miroh:One, clean up after yourself and keep your space tidy.Two, no leaving the premises without permission.Three, don't practice or train by yourself, have a partner or spotter with you at all times.Four, mind your own business and don't pry.Five, stay far, far away from Yang Jeongin.Lee Minho doesn't fall, until one day he does.(in more ways than one)
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	1. The Ones that Entertain

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO WORLD!
> 
> The lovely momodanik and I came up with this au one night on a whim and it's finally brought to life! There's a distinct lack of circus aus everywhere so that had to be fixed because aerial silks!minho is something that just needs to be shared with the world. I'll leave a link to momodanik's fmv when she finally posts it because it's just perfection <3 This fic is gonna be a lot simpler and more casual than my other skz fic (The King of Kings, royalty omegaverse au check it out if you're interested!) so let's all be angsty together friends! 
> 
> Enjoy this first chapter!

Ah… It’s so hot.

Minho squints up at the clear blue sky above his head, holding a hand above his eyes to shield them from the blazing sun. He’s sweating straight through the thin cotton of his white t-shirt, and he grimaces in discomfort as the fabric clings to his back and armpits with each shift of his duffel. Everything he’s ever owned in his whole life, everything he’s ever held dear to his heart, all contained within the single off-brand bag he’d picked up at a flea market three years ago.

The thought is a little terrifying, though there’s excitement budding within him nonetheless.

This is his first step towards a new life, a _better_ life, a—

“Are you going to get in or not?” Minho jumps at the sudden blare of the car horn, nearly dropping his duffel as he scrambles to regain his composure. His cheeks are flushed and red not only from the heat of the day as he ducks into the backseat of the Uber, pointedly avoiding the driver’s judging eyes and buckling his seatbelt.

His skin feels clammy and gross beneath the polyester mesh of his sling, and Minho wants for nothing more in that moment than a nice, cold shower. He wiggles his phone out of his pocket with his good hand and scrolls through the text messages he’d gotten from one of the guys at his new place, thumb hovering over the _‘Looking forward to seeing you!’_ he’d last received a few hours ago when he was checking out of his room at the hospital.

The car is humming beneath him but the sound is distant, barely registering in his head as he watches the world flies right past them through the window. The cold walls of grey and silver eventually melt away into lush green grass, the trees seeming to grow taller and taller with each mile they drive into the countryside.

All Minho can think of is sticking his head out of the window and breathing in the smell of the fresh, country air he’s known and loved for more than half of his lifetime. But he doesn’t, of course, the driver already thinks he’s weird enough.

“Are you sure this is the right address, kid?” the driver shoots him a pointed look in the rearview mirror, staring sceptically out at the endless expanses of fields and forests. “The address you gave is right in the middle of nowhere.”

Minho sits up a little straighter, a wide smile on his face. “I’m sure.”

The driver shrugs and turns his gaze back to the road, silence falling between them once more. Minho wonders if pulling on a pair of headphones will be rude, considering the fact that the man really is driving him out into the middle of nowhere. The silence feels heavy and uncomfortable so Minho eventually just gives in and plugs in his earphones, bobbing his head along with whatever shuffles on in his playlist.

His heart is thrumming in his chest as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, his hands shaky on his lap from anticipation. Minho remembers the first night he’d seen them, remembers the roaring flames, the glint of metal as it whipped through the air faster than the speed of light. His heart had been beating just as hard that night, harder, even.

Pain shoots through his arm and Minho hisses, shifting away from the door which he’d bumped his injured elbow into with a glare. He wishes he’d bought that bottle of overpriced tap water from the hospital vending machine after all as the cuts on his lips start to sting from dryness. His right eye is still a little swollen and the cut on his right cheek is just starting to scab over and heal; he must look like a right mess, no wonder the Uber driver had looked so wary when he picked him up.

He reaches up to poke at one of the bruises dotted along his cheekbone, wincing at the dull throb the pressure causes. Those guys better not have messed up his face permanently, it’s one of the main reasons he’s so popular in his field after all. The car makes a sharp right turn and Minho sits up straighter, peering breathlessly out through the windshield at the rapidly approaching specks of white.

_They’re here_.

It takes all he has not to rip open the door and jump out right then and there, fingers drumming anxiously against the back of the passenger seat’s headrest. The specks of white are right before them now: humongous tarpaulin tents tied firmly to the ground with large metal pegs.

The driver whistles lowly, eyes wide as he takes in the impressive sight of rows upon rows of tents and stands in the clearing they’ve stopped in. “So you’re a circus boy?” the driver hums, unlocking the car door for him to get out. The sounds of shouting and laughter ring loudly around him the second he steps out, his bag clutched tightly in his hand as he pauses, taking it all in.

Minho turns back with a smile, the widest he thinks he’s ever smiled in his life.

“Yeah,” he replies, staring up at the humongous coloured tent right in the centre of the field, “yeah I am.”

He drops his bag to the ground for a second to fish out his wallet, struggling to fish out the cash to pay the driver one handed. Eventually he manages it and pulls out the bills he needs, handing it over to the driver and tapping his foot anxiously against the dry soil as he waits for his change. He knows it’s common courtesy to tip the driver for driving out to such an out of the way place but he just can’t afford it now, not after the significant dent his hospital bills had put on his bank account.

“Thank you!” he shouts after the car as it speeds off, kicking up a miniature dust storm as it goes. Minho picks up his bag and begins his trek over to the tents, panting from exertion as the sun scorches into the exposed skin of his neck. After a few minutes of attempting to find someone between the mass of tents, Minho gives up and pulls out his phone, shooting a quick text to his contact to tell him he’s here.

Admittedly, he does feel a little stupid just standing out here in the heat but he doesn’t have much choice, he can’t exactly just duck into a random tent and poke around. That’s just bad manners, and Minho can’t be making bad impressions his first day at his new job can he.

“Hey! Over here mate!” a blond boy with faintly accented korean calls out, standing outside of the main tent and waving wildly over at him. Minho heads over as quickly as his aching right leg will allow, dropping into a deep bow the second he’s close enough to note just how dashingly handsome the boy is. “Woah woah, no need for that, up we come bro.”

The boy pulls at his good arm to get him to straighten back up, a sheepish expression on his masculine features. “You must be Lee Minho right? I’m Chan, the one who’s been texting you.” he introduces himself, extending a hand out for him to shake. Minho takes it quickly, convincing himself that the redness he can feel in the tips of his ears is purely from the heat and not from being face-to-face with one of the most beautiful men he’s ever had the grace of seeing.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Chan.” he bows again despite the other man’s protests. “Thank you so much for taking me in despite my,” Minho gestures to his sling with an embarrassed grin, “condition.”

Chan balks and Minho panics, wondering what he’d said wrong to offend the boy. Oh god he can’t get fired now, not when he’s spent almost a hundred thousand won to get out here. “I’m only like a year older than you, mate, Chan-hyung is fine.”

Minho lets out a sigh of relief, clutching tighter onto his duffel to hide just how much his fingers are trembling. He can’t get kicked out again, he _can’t_.

“How’s your arm? What did the doctors say?” Chan asks, a kindness in his eyes that Minho isn’t used to in the slightest. He shrugs, regretting the movement instantly as pain shoots out from his elbow like a jolt of lightning through his veins.

“The doctor said it’ll take up to six weeks to recover, but I’ll be up and going the second I’m out of this sling!” Minho rambles, hoping against hope that his long period of uselessness will be overlooked. Because that’s all he is now: useless. What’s the point of a performer that can’t perform?

The blond boy chuckles and beckons for Minho to follow him into the main tent. “Don’t worry so much, aye? Focus on fully recovering before you even _think_ about getting up in the air again, reinjuring yourself isn’t gonna help anybody.”

He barely hears Chan’s words above the rush of blood in his ears as they enter the tent, the rich golds and reds lining the ceiling and the rows upon rows of seats around them just as breathtaking as he remembers them to be. There are three thick metal poles located around the large ring in the very centre of the tent supporting the towering peak of the tent, the sheer enormity and magnificence of it making Minho’s heart skip a beat.

It’s beautiful. If Minho were ever asked to describe his ideal heaven, he’d list every feature of this place down to the tee without leaving out even a single speck of dust. It’s more magical than his old circus could ever hope to be, and he’s suddenly grateful for every mottled bruise that dots his skin, every cut and every ache.

After all, they’re the only reason he’s even been granted the honour of being allowed to set foot in this tent.

Once Minho has gotten over his initial awed silence, he finally notices the large crowd of people scattered throughout the tent. There’s a small boy with pale blond hair hanging from his knees on a set of uneven bars, stretching downwards with the tips of his fingers pointed straight to the ground before raising himself up into a crunch. Minho finds his gaze roving almost unconsciously over the boy’s slim, leanly muscled form, humming appreciatively at the clean definition of his abs as he pokes at his own tummy with the slightest of pouts.

Getting that kind of definition in his muscles has always been a challenge for Minho, having to work twice as hard as his ex team members to look even halfway presentable for the stage.

“Shit! _Duck_!” Minho’s so busy bemoaning his barely-there abs that he doesn’t notice the deadly flying weapon coming straight towards him until he’s yanked to the side by Chan’s rough, callused hands, the loud, solid _thud_ that sounds behind him mere milliseconds later making his stomach flip. With ragged breathing he turns his head to check out the damage, sucking in a sharp inhale at the sight of the gleaming, silver-handled knife embedded deeply into the wood panelling set up around the perimeter of the tent.

That could have been his _head_.

They hadn’t had any knife throwers back in his old circus, Minho’s honestly feeling a little overwhelmed. His panic must flash across his face because Chan is reaching over to squeeze at his shoulder, a reassuring smile in place. “You good, Minho?”

He nods, taking a deep breath to try and calm his racing heart. “Yeah I’m fine, thanks.”

Chan cups his hands around his mouth and hollers. “Oi everybody! Come say hi to our new performer!” he calls out, his voice ringing out across the entire expanse of the tent. Minho finds himself looking at Chan with a newfound respect as everyone around them simply drops whatever it is they were doing and runs over to surround them, no questions asked. To be as young as Chan and garner that amount of respect from everyone around him; it’s kind of mind blowing.

“Hey, I’m _so_ sorry about that knife. I was fooling around and it just slipped out of my hand, I wasn’t trying to kill you I swear.” a boy with peachy orange hair starts rambling to him the moment he’s within earshot, an embarrassed look on his sort of longish, puffy cheeked face. There’s a soft pout on the boy’s lips, his eyes wide and round and innocent enough that Minho couldn’t be mad even if he wanted to be.

“No worries!” he replies, grimacing at how high pitched his voice sounds. “All part of being in the circus, right?”

Relief floods over the boy’s face and he grins, all sparkling eyes and pearly white teeth. Minho stifles a laugh as Chan grabs at the boy and tucks his head under his arm, rubbing at his hair and mussing it up as the boy whines and squeals. The blond boy he’d spotted earlier on is the second to approach him, holding out a hand seemingly for Minho to shake only to guide their joint hands to the crown of his platinum blond head and give himself exactly two pets before releasing him.

“I’m Felix,” the boy introduces himself with a voice far deeper than Minho had expected, “I’m a contortionist, but I also do trapeze with my Changbinnie.”

How does he respond to this. “Uh, hi Felix, I’m Minho, aerial-“

“I know.” Felix says simply before Minho can even finish his sentence, nodding solemnly.

“Oh, okay, you know, _cool_.” Minho drifts off, wondering just how to continue the conversation. “Would you like some more…?” he mimes patting his own hair and Felix shakes his head.

“No, three would be far too many.”

“Oh, yeah definitely, far too many.” he echoes weakly, still not quite knowing what in the world is going on.

Another boy comes to stand with Felix, taller than both of them and sporting a head of vibrant lilac hair. “Don’t mind Felix, we’ve all been very excited to meet you.” he says, pinching lightly at Felix’s cheek with an affectionate smile. “You’re pretty famous among us circus folk, Mr. Lee Know.”

Minho cringes at the sound of his old stage name. It’d been the owner of his previous circus to give him the name back when he’d first joined them, and while it had seemed cool back when he was in his early teens, he realised later on just how strange it really was. “Just Minho is fine, really.”

“But you’re basically circus royalty! I can’t believe Omelas was _stupid_ enough to let you go.” the orange haired boy from earlier suddenly pipes up, waving a throwing knife around in the air a lot more carelessly than Minho would prefer. There’s a heavy sinking feeling in his gut at the boy’s words, his expression darkening at the memory of his dismissal from Omelas Circus.

“Hey hey hey, watch what you’re saying, Sungie.” another voice pipes up from out of nowhere, the familiarity of the raspy tones catching Minho’s attention. He’s heard that voice before, in fact, it was the owner of this exact voice that had saved him that fateful night. He looks up right in time to make eye contact with the most beautiful human he’s ever seen in his entire life, his heart skipping far too many beats to be considered healthy.

The boy is _tall_ , taller than even the lilac-haired boy beside Felix. His hair is a long golden blond tied back in a messy bun at the back of his head, his plump lips set in a smirk as he joins the group. “It’s you!” he exclaims, dropping into a deep bow. The other boys around them are looking a little confused when he comes back up but the tall boy merely smiles, bowing in return.

“You’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.” he says, cat-like eyes roving over the healing bruises and cuts that litter his skin. “I’m Hyunjin, by the way, I look forward to working with you.”

“Thank you for helping me get hired, I’ll do my best to repay your kindness.” the other boys look perplexed by his words, glancing over at Hyunjin with curiosity apparent in the quirks of their brows. Hyunjin himself looks a little uneasy though Minho doesn’t quite know why, waving him off with a nervous laugh.

“Oh no, I barely did anything, really.” there’s a look in Hyunjin’s eyes telling Minho to drop it so he does, clamping his mouth shut and toeing the floor nervously.

Why doesn’t Hyunjin want for the others to know that he was the one to help Minho in the first place?

Chan reappears by his side before he can dwell on his thoughts for any longer, rattling off names and making introductions so quickly the words all fade to a muffled buzz in Minho’s ears. He’ll feel bad for not paying attention later but for now his focus remains trained on Hyunjin, willing his heart to stop fluttering like a hummingbird’s wing as he takes in every little detail of the taller boy’s face.

“Come on Minho, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.” Chan taps him lightly on the shoulder and guides him out of the tent, the rest of the performers drifting back to their stations and resuming whatever they’d been doing prior to Minho’s arrival. “Some of us aren’t here right now so they’ll introduce themselves later, I know meeting everyone in one shot was pretty overwhelming.”

The knowing look on Chan’s face lets Minho know the older boy is well aware of the fact that he hadn’t been fully present for the introductions just now, though he doesn’t bring it up or use it to make fun of him and for that Minho is grateful. “You must have a lot on your mind, being in a new place and all. But I’m here for you whenever you need to talk or just need some company, we’re a family here, we take care of our own.”

“Thanks, that really means a lot.” Minho breathes, readjusting his grip on his bag and wiping the sweat from his temple with his shoulder. He can tell Chan is a good person, heck, he’s pretty sure everyone in the tent they’d just left is a good person. It’s a new feeling that Minho isn’t used to in the slightest: not having to watch his words and look over his shoulder at every turn,

He thinks he can get used to this, though, he definitely _wants_ to.

“Here we go, home sweet home! Shoes off by the door!” Chan pushes open the flap of one of the smaller white tents around the perimeter and ushers Minho in, the cooler temperature within a stark contrast to the broiling heat outside. He shucks his sneakers off and places them on the shoe rack they have set up by the entrance. “You’ll be roommates with me, Seungmin, and Hyunjin. We were the only ones with room to spare for an extra bed, hope you don’t mind.”

Minho shakes his head quickly, not wanting to appear ungrateful in any way. “No it’s great, really, I love having roommates.”

He does, really. Minho has spent the majority of his life sharing living spaces with other people, long since used to the comforting presence of his team members with him on cold, tired nights. It was only the last half a year that he was given a tent all to himself, a reward was what his old managers had said.

It felt more like hell instead, or at least, had been what led straight down into it.

Minho sets his bag down at the foot of the empty bed, stretching out his good arm and popping his stiff joints. This’ll be the first time he’s rooming with three other people at once, but the more the merrier right?

Chan comes over and sits down crosslegged on the floor beside Minho. “I’ll leave you to get settled in in a sec, but first I need to go over our rules with you real quick.”

“There are _rules_?” he asks, almost disbelievingly. His old circus hadn’t had any set rules, and the performers were free to do whatever they pleased as long as it didn’t interfere with shows. It’s one of the reasons why he’d always kept whatever cash he earned in between the linings of his bag, lest anyone were to find it while undoubtedly snooping through his things.

The blond boy nods, holding up five fingers in Minho’s face. “One, clean up after yourself and keep your tent tidy.”

Fairly simple, and Minho’s always been fussy about his cleanliness anyways.

“Two, no leaving the premises without permission.” Chan stares at him pointedly as if expecting him to protest but he keeps quiet, seemingly passing some sort of test as Chan grins and carries on. “Three, don’t ever practice or train by yourself, you have to have at least one other person around at all times.”

That Minho frowns at. “Why?”

Chan gestures towards his sling and Minho flushes, embarrassment colouring his cheeks a pale pink. “We don’t want any injuries or falls happening when no one’s around to spot you or call for help, it’s for our own good.”

“That’s fair.” Minho mumbles, though his own injury had had nothing to do with a training accident whatsoever.

On the contrary, it might not have been an accident at all.

“Four, mind your own business and don’t pry.” Chan says, sounding far too cheery for his words. “There are a lot of us here with our own histories and secrets, we’re a family but we don’t invade each others’ privacy without good reason, okay?”

Chan only has one finger still up and Minho pokes at it without thinking, the skin there rough and hardened from years of training. He realises what he’s just done and makes to apologise but Chan simply laughs, reaching over to ruffle his hair. The touch is comforting, Minho notes, finding himself leaning into it naturally. “What’s the last rule?” he asks, suppressing a yawn. He’d barely slept last night in the hospital, his mind far too awake with excitement to slip into unconsciousness.

The older boy’s kind face turns suddenly serious, teasing expression darkening. “Five, don’t ever, _ever_ , go anywhere near Jeongin.”

Minho’s chest tightens at the warning sounding loud and clear in between the consonants of Chan’s words, gulping hard. “Who’s Jeongin?” he asks, meek and timid. He doesn’t know why he’s so intimidated, why the fifth rule had instilled such a strong sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

“Just someone who stays here with us, but it doesn’t matter, just stay away from him.” Chan says solemnly, ending the conversation there before Minho can question him any further. His curiosity is piqued though, and he makes a mental note to ask around about it when he can. “Get changed and come back to the main tent, today’s core day so you should be able to join in.”

The kind smile from earlier is back on Chan’s face and Minho wonders if it’s possible to get whiplash from changing expressions as quickly as he had. “I’ll do my best.” he promises; maybe he can get Felix to share some of his tips for defining his abs.

Chan hums and makes to exit the tent, and Minho turns away from him to take out his workout clothes to change into. He’s about to remove his sling so he can strip off his damp, sweat soaked shirt when Chan gasps, the sudden sound making Minho jump.

“Oh yeah! One more thing.” Chan grins, only his head poking through the flaps of the tent.

“Yeah?” There’s a twinkle in Chan’s eyes that Minho can’t quite decipher yet, but it makes him smile nonetheless.

“Welcome to Cirque du Miroh, Lee Minho, let’s show the world what we’re made of.” 


	2. The Ones that Observe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! It's been very very very long since I updated this but here I am with a brand new chapter! This fic is a lot more easygoing than my main one so it's really quite a relaxing experience to write hehe. Here I bring you our first minsung crumbs, though strictly platonic for the time being ;) Hope you all enjoy <3

It takes exactly five days for things to start going wrong.

In Minho’s defence, he’d been expecting for shit to hit the fan about three days in, so five days isconsidered a _win_ in his book. The first few days at Cirque du Miroh passed as sort of a fever dream, his days a blur of activity and faces he still can’t quite place a name to. It’s a lot bigger of a circus than his old one had been, so adjusting to _just_ _how_ _many_ people there are around has been quite a trip.

All hustle and bustle, no time to rest, move it move it move it.

Most nights Minho passes out on his cot the second his head hits the pillow, other nights not so much. He tries not to wake the others up with his nightmares but apparently unconscious him doesn’t play by the rules, crying or screaming his way out of his dreams and disrupting his roommates far more often than he’d like.

They say it’s okay, though the dark circles he spots beneath their eyes the days after never fail to tighten his chest with guilt. Though, besides that? Everything else was going great, peachy, even.

At least, that was until a misplaced throwing knife ripped a humongous gaping hole in his sling, rendering it completely and utterly unusable despite the sizeable chunk of money that Minho had spent on it which should, in theory, have been correlational to the durability of the stupid thing.

But he digresses.

“I’m so sorry!” Jisung squeaks out for the hundred and twenty-eighth time that day, staring up at Minho with large, glisteningly mournful eyes, the throwing knife in question thrown carelessly off to the side. “I didn’t mean to!”

Minho sighs. “Yes, yes, I know you didn’t. Can you please let go of my leg now?”

“Not until you agree to let me buy you a new one!” Jisung has his arms wrapped around his good leg, tight enough that his toes are starting to feel a little numb. As much as the practical, account-keeping part of his brain is telling him: _‘yes, take the poor, innocent boy’s money’_ , he knows that taking money from a boy two years younger than himself for something that was an accident is just bad karma.

“A new leg? I’d prefer a new arm if you must” he jokes despite himself, suppressing a laugh at the look of utter confusion on Jisung’s face before he realises he’s being made fun of.

He whines loudly. “ _Hyung_ …”

“I should have been more careful with it.” Minho forgets for a moment that his arm is no longer supported by the sling and shrugs, wincing immediately after as the movement shoots a lightning bolt of pain straight into his bones. “Ow fuck.”

Jisung’s eyes widen and he jumps to his feet, hands hovering over Minho’s left elbow. “Oh my god oh my god, are you okay?” he downright whimpers, running his fingers through his hair a tad rougher than Minho would think wise. “You see? You _have_ to get a new sling!”

“I know I do, I’m just saying that you don’t need to pay for it.”

“Okay, then how about we split it, fifty-fifty?” this has Minho hesitating, and while his wallet is saying yes his morals are still toeing the line. “I’ll drive you into town to get a new sling, you can think about it on the way there. Deal?”

He pouts again and Minho is sold. “Fine.” he sighs, grabbing his towel and drying his wet hair as much as he can. He’d had his sling hung up on one of the hooks on the walls for clothes while he was taking his shower, and a knife falling from the top of the divider between the shower cubiclesand straight into his sling had honestly been the last thing he’d expected to happen that morning. Which reminds him…

“Why did you bring a knife into the shower anyways?” he grumbles, ignoring the growing soreness in his arm. Jisung mumbles something unintelligible below his breath and Minho frowns, leaning in closer to try and hear him better. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I was trying to practice throwing and catching under running water…” Jisung’s round, squirrel-like cheeks are flushed a lovely shade of pink, twirling the aforementioned knife carelessly between his fingers. “‘Cos me and Seungmin got a new idea for a show, you know?”

Minho isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to be knowing but he nods anyways. “Still, you should be more careful. You could have hurt yourself.”

“It’s okay, Minho-hyung, I’ve only ever stabbed myself once, and that was when I was first learning!”

That really, really doesn’t make him feel any better. Jisung gestures for Minho to follow him out of the showers, laundry bag thrown over his shoulder and his towel around his neck. He looks a lot smaller like this, Minho thinks, with his dripping wet hair and baggy t-shirt that’s almost falling off one shoulder. He looks young.

Then again, circus-folk tend to be a little older than their years, part and parcel of spending years on the road and training your butts off to perform life-threatening stunts he figures.

“Where are we going, Jisung?” he asks, ignoring the way the wet earth squishes beneath his feet as they trudge through the muddy field. It was pouring pretty heavily last night, though the sky this morning is a lot clearer, not a single cloud in sight. It promises some nice, sunny weather, which would have been perfect for Minho to do some outdoor practice were his arm not currently out of commission.

Jisung glances back at him with a quirked brow. “To see Mr. Park, we can’t leave the premises to go to town unless he gives the okay, remember?”

Ah yes, rule number two, how could Minho forget.

“Right…” he looks down at his own sloppy t-shirt and training shorts and wonders if he should duck into his tent for a change of clothes real quick before meeting his boss. He’s staying here on probation, after all. If his performance turns out to not be up to standards once his elbow’s recovered, Minho has little doubt of how quickly he’ll be sent packing. No hard feelings, of course, he knows just how competitive this life he’s chosen is far too well.

“Come on! We gotta catch him while he’s still in a good mood.” Jisung grabs his good arm and begins to forcibly tug him along, going a little faster than he’d prefer for the soreness in his leg. “Mr. Park is always all groggy and dopey in the mornings, so he’s way more likely to let us go if we ask him now.”

Minho nods. It makes sense, he figures. They come to a stop in front of one of the few camper vans accompanying the circus, large and bright and white. It’s positioned by the edge of the camp away from the noise and bustle of the main tents: the perfect spot for the circus master’s sleeping quarters. Minho has only seen the elusive Mr. Park a few times since he’d arrived, never for long, though, never more a polite hello and a bow. Chan is the only person amongst them that Mr. Park actually converses with, though with how likeable Chan is it isn’t hard to imagine why.

Three quick raps on the door of the van is all it takes to summon the circus master, his eyes still puffy with sleep as he blinks blearily down at him and Jisung. “Mr. Park!” Jisung beams, channeling as much angelic energy as he can muster into his wide, toothy smile. “Good morning, sir!”

The man hums, confusion evident on his features as he tries to decipher exactly why he and Jisung have come knocking so early on a Monday morning. “Morning, Jisung,” he glances over at Minho with pursed lips, “and friend.”

Jisung’s shoulders actually shake with how hard he’s trying to stifle his laughter; Minho somehow can’t find it in him to be upset. “Mr. Park, Minho-hyung needs to buy a new sling for his arm so could I get permission to drive him into town to get one?”

“Oh, yes, the aerial silks boy…” Mr. Park hums, looking back at Minho in a whole new light. “Recovering well, Minseo?”

“It’s Minho, sir, and yes I’m getting better.”

“Will you be long?” he ignores Minho and turns back to Jisung, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Your no-spin throws still aren’t perfect yet.”

The way Jisung’s face falls has Minho’s chest tightening, and he has to resist the urge to reach out for the younger boy’s hand and squeeze it. So he speaks up instead. “We won’t be long, Mr. Park, I’ll make sure Jisung is back before noon.”

It’s seven am now, if they speed a little they’ll make it with plenty of time to spare. A sudden crash from inside the camper van has them all jumping, though the blatant wide eyed _fear_ Minho sees on Mr. Park’s face is enough to pique his curiosity. “Is that…?” Jisung attempts to peer around Mr. Park but to no avail, the older man squaring his shoulders and blocking their view of the inside entirely.

“You both better hurry if you want to be back by noon.” is all the man says before he’s slamming the door in their faces, Jisung stumbling a little from shock before Minho reaches out to steady him. The knife-thrower merely shrugs, turning to Minho with a sheepish grin.

“Guess that’s our cue to skedaddle.”

Minho snorts. “ _Skedaddle_.” he repeats, dodging Jisung’s halfhearted swipe. “Come on, which car are we taking?”

* * *

The look Chan gives them when they go to him for the car keys will stick with Minho for the rest of his life, he thinks. He hasn’t seen his father for a very long time, but he imagines that Chan managed to replicate a father’s disapproval pretty darn well. The inside of the van smells a little like sweat and old rubber but Minho doesn’t mind it, his old circus’s cars had smelled far, far worse.

Jisung winds down the windows as they’re driving down the long road Minho had travelled just five days prior, the wind whipping at his cheeks drying his hair in minutes. The air is fresh and clear and Minho can’t get enough of it, leaning back against the seat and letting his eyes slide closed for just a moment. He’s been working nonstop since he got to Cirque du Miroh, the only time he hasn’t been working out or helping to set up being the few hours that he manages to get of sleep every night.

He loves it, but this moment to rest is nice.

“You’re twenty-two, right Minho-hyung?” Jisung pipes up about ten minutes into their drive, eyes flicking towards him for just a second before returning to the road.

A strange question, but not the strangest. “Yeah,” he replies simply, “and you?”

“Turning twenty in a month.” he’s young, Minho realises a little belatedly. He knows Chan is older, could probably tell even if Chan hadn’t been the one to bring it up himself. There’s just an air about him, an aura that just radiates maturity and _‘I know what I’m doing’_ vibes that the rest of them haven’t quite gotten yet. Minho was one of the youngest at his old circus, which is probably why—

His breath catches, his throat tightening uncomfortably. Perhaps it’s a little too soon to be thinking about those old memories quite yet. He should respond to Jisung, if he were a better conversationalist he’d have a follow-up question ready to go. But he’s not, though he does want to be.

There’s also the no prying rule, Minho remembers. But where does he draw the line between prying and simply getting to know each other? “You been training long?” he asks after several beats of only slightly uncomfortable silence. He hasn’t really interacted with Jisung other than that first day when he’d almost nailed him in the forehead, so there’s still that awkward air between them that has yet to dissipate.

“Yeah, since I was five.” Jisung doesn’t hesitate at all before replying, so that must mean it’s alright for him to keep going.

“You’ve been knife-throwing since you were _five_?” he’s a little shocked; five years old is young even by industry standards. Minho only started training when he was a preteen, and even then the stress his chosen art had put on his young, undeveloped body had been enough to hinder his growth pretty significantly. He can’t imagine having started any earlier, who knows how much more screwed up his body would be. Would Jisung have even been strong enough to throw a knife into a target at that age?

Jisung shakes his head, a wry smile on his thin lips. “No, not knife-throwing, I just started that a few months ago.”

“A few months?” Minho squeaks out, recalling with horrifying clarity the sharp precision with which Jisung had thrown his blades just the night before during practice. _Months_. The knife-thrower at his old circus had been training for _ten_ _years_ to master his art, and Jisung had simply picked it up just like that a few _months_ ago? “Months…?” he repeats softly to himself, head still spinning a little from the sudden confession.

“Yeah,” Jisung is giggling now, as if he hasn’t just upended Minho’s world with a single sentence, “thought I’d try something new that no one else is doing.”

Minho frowns, something about this timeline not quite adding up in his head. “Then what were you training for when you were five?”

“I think I started with trapeze, but I got bored of it by the time I was ten. And Felix was getting good at it by then too, so I decided to switch.” Jisung has a nostalgic, almost wistful smile on his face. Reminiscing about the good old days, Minho would guess. “I think I did tightrope after that, but that got boring too after a while.”

“So you just pick things up and drop them when you bored of them? That’s pretty unusual.” one of a kind more like, Minho’s never heard of someone quite like him before. “Your parents must be pretty easygoing to let you try out so many dangerous sports like that.”

In hindsight, Minho definitely should have thought that over a few more times before blurting it out, seeing as how Jisung’s face immediately falls at the mention of his parents.

_Oh god._ Minho’s scrambles and sputters to try and think up a way to salvage the situation but Jisung speaks up first. “I don’t have parents, I’ve lived at the circus since I was five.”

Well, now Minho just feels like a complete piece of trash.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up…” he whispers, turning away from Jisung and looking out at the fresh green of the countryside instead. The laugh Jisung lets out doesn’t really make him feel any better, though he can tell that’s what Jisung is trying to do.

“It’s fine, Minho-hyung, it was a long time ago. The circus is my family now, I love everyone to bits.” Jisung reaches down to fiddle with the radio; Minho doesn’t recognise much of the music that comes blaring out of the tinny van speakers but the white noise is enough to drown out his thoughts for a little while. “What about you, how long have you been training?”

“Since I was twelve, started with hoops and moved onto silks when I was fifteen, maybe sixteen?” now that he’s heard Jisung’s story, his own training period doesn’t really seem as long as he’d thought it was. Sometimes Minho wonders how his life would have turned out if he hadn’t climbed up on those old metal hoops back at the gym in his middle school days, if he hadn’t fallen head first in love with his silks and never looked back.

He shrugs off the thought; that isn’t a life he thinks he’d ever want to live.

“You must really love it, then, to dedicate your life to it and all.”

Minho smiles. He does love it, he loves the feeling of being up in the air, the feeling of the silks against his skin as they hold him up… Though it’s the adrenaline he loves the most, the race of his heart against his ribs as he dances thirty feet above ground; he’ll never be able to get enough of it. “Yeah, you could say it’s my first love.”

Jisung’s pulling into a parking space before Minho even fully registers that they’ve reached town, a softness in his eyes as he pulls up the handbrake that has Minho’s own heart melting as well. “That’s really, really nice, Minho-hyung.” is all he says before he’s stepping out of the car, tucking his slightly overgrown peach-coloured hair into a baseball cap and rolling his shoulders. Minho grimaces at the blazing heat of the sun on his exposed arms and neck, wishing he’d thought to bring a hat like Jisung had.

“You drive really well.” Minho didn’t have much opportunity to learn since he’d joined the circus back when he was fifteen, so he’d never gotten around to getting a license. He should get one though, if he’s not going to be able to be up on his silks for another five or so weeks he should at least make himself useful by driving the others around.

“Thanks!” Jisung laughs, and Minho wonders why he sounds so guilty. “I don’t actually have a license though, so if anyone pulls us over we’re screwed.”

Minho chokes on his own saliva.

* * *

Jisung disappears at some point between the weights and protein powder sections of the sports store they’ve entered, not a trace of him to be seen even as Minho is waddling up to the counter to pay. Guess he hadn’t been serious about paying half of the cost of a new sling, though Minho can’t find it in him to be very upset. It had been a complete accident, after all, and there’s really no purpose in pointing fingers and searching for someone to blame.

He’s reaching for his wallet to pay for the sling when the possibly-underaged cashier hands him a receipt and a shiny credit card. “Your friend left this with me to pay for your purchase, but please tell him not to go around giving strangers his credit card anymore, if I weren’t so afraid of my manager I’d have run off with it already.”

Minho snatches the card out of the cashier’s hands and tucks it securely in his own wallet, shooting the tired looking teenager a wary look. He’s been there, though, so he can’t really judge. He takes a moment to take his new sling out of the packaging and put it on, hissing softly at the soreness in his elbow. He hopes the hours he’s spent out of his sling won’t set his recovery back too far, he’d hate to have to spend even longer out of his silks than he already has to.

A knock on the glass makes him jump. He turns around fast enough to give himself whiplash, fighting a smile at the sight of a grinning Jisung with two large ice cream cones clutched in his hands. The scoops are almost as large as his head, one of them a reddish pink colour and the other a minty looking green.

“Hyung! Hurry up hurry up hurry up they’re melting!” Jisung holds the two cones out in front of him for Minho to choose, hopping anxiously on the spot as ice cream begins to slowly drip down the sides of the cones. “It’s strawberry and mint chocolate, quickly! Pick one! _Pick_!”

Flustered, Minho grabs for the mint chocolate cone and quickly licks up the dripping ice cream before it can get onto his fingers. It’s sweet and cold and heavenly; Minho can’t remember the last time he’d had ice cream like this. Perhaps last year on his birthday? Hoseok had driven him down to the nearest town that day against the circus master’s wishes and gotten him ice cream and a cupcake; they’d been punished severely when they got back but Minho will always be grateful.

“Is it good?” Jisung takes a humongous bite of his strawberry cone and grins at him with pink stained teeth.

“It’s great, I love mint chocolate.”

“Thought as much, you look like a mint chocolate person.” Minho doesn’t know what to make of the glint in Jisung’s eye as he says it so he chooses to not comment.

He fishes out Jisung’s credit card and dangles it in front of his nose. “I believe this is yours?”

“Oh yeah, forgot about that, thanks!” Jisung makes to take the card from him but Minho holds it up out of his reach.

“You do know you shouldn’t just randomly give your credit card out to strangers, right?” Minho takes another slow lick of his ice cream, just to let it really sink in. “Because you do know it’s really dangerous, _right_?’

Minho doesn’t have a card of his own, doesn’t have a bank account either. His old circus hadn’t allowed him to open one, and he’d received his pay in cash every month for almost seven years now. It was something about evading taxes, Minho never really bothered to pay much attention. Needless to say, half of the weight in his bag doesn’t actually come from his clothes, so he’s basically completely screwed if he ever happens to get robbed.

He wonders if there’s a bank anywhere in this little outskirt town they’ve stopped at, seeing as how Jisung has a credit card that surely means Minho would be allowed to have one too.

Jisung pouts. “I know it is, but you wouldn’t have let me pay if I hadn’t done it!”

The knife-thrower is right, of course, but Minho won’t admit to that so easily. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Hyung _please_.” Jisung has a smear of strawberry ice cream on his cheek and his eyes are wide and sparkling; Minho’s a goner.

Weak, he’s so weak. “Fine,” he mumbles, frustrated at his own inability to resist puppy eyes for the life of him, “but just this once, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah- Oh shit, we gotta go or Mr. Park will gut us!” he grabs Minho’s good arm and starts tugging him furiously in the direction of the van, peach hair in an utter mess by the time they’re seated on the old, worn leather. Minho has to fish out a pack of tissues from the glove compartment for Jisung to wipe his hands, his fingers too sticky with ice cream to drive comfortably.

“Who taught you to drive?” he asks as Jisung is pulling them out of their parking space. The only other person he’s seen driving before is their strongman, Jackson, though he doesn’t really seem like the teaching type.

Jisung hums, brows twisted as he thinks. “It was Brian-hyung, I think. Jae-hyung tried to teach me but we almost drove into a ditch so he passed me off to Brian-hyung.” Minho finds he can picture that far too easily, biting his lip to hide his smile. “Why? Don’t you know how to drive, Hyung?”

Minho shakes his head, ignoring the rising heat in his cheeks at the admission. He’s never thought of it as something embarrassing before, though now he’s coming to realise exactly how much he hasn’t experienced before in life compared to someone two years younger. Perhaps he should have left Omelas earlier… He glances down at his sling and fights the resentment that sizzles in his chest; perhaps he wouldn’t be in this awful predicament if he had.

“That’s okay. I mean, you mastered aerial silks in what, five years? It’s understandable that you wouldn’t have had the time for much else.” that isn’t the case at all, but Minho can’t bring himself to deny it. “Chan-hyung’s a pretty good teacher, he was the one that taught Felix. If you wanna learn he’s the best one to teach ‘ya.”

“Thanks, Jisung, I’ll keep that in mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Leave some reviews and a kudo if you like it really makes my day!
> 
> Follow me @chocochimkook on twitter for the occasional fic update!


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